


The Missing Piece

by Hakui_Kitsune



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Maternal love, One-Shot, critiques welcome (but nothing too harsh), didn't have the heart to read back over it to beta myself, may be confusing to read because of that, may get an extension for KH3's ending (but we'll see), since I haven't written literally anything in possibly a decade, takes place over the course of time from CoM to the end of KH2, very un-beta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 13:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19210705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hakui_Kitsune/pseuds/Hakui_Kitsune
Summary: At the top of the stairs at the end of the hall on the second floor of a house by the shore, there is a room. A room whose door hasn’t been opened in around a year. A room whose contents have well-remained a mystery in around a year. A room whose existence has been put to question in around a year. The only thing that could be said about this room is that there was once, and possibly still is, something important in connection to the space that lay beyond that haphazardly made door. She’s sure of it.A one-shot about what Sora's mother (and father, by extension) may have gone through in the year or so that Sora remained almost completely forgotten by everyone whom met him. [Timeline: KH:CoM Ending to KH2 Ending]





	The Missing Piece

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Kingdom Hearts or any franchises related to it. Kingdom Hearts is rightfully owned by Tetsuya Nomura, Square-Enix, and Disney.

At the top of the stairs at the end of the hall on the second floor of a house by the shore, there is a room. A room whose door hasn’t been opened in around a year. A room whose contents have well-remained a mystery in around a year. A room whose existence has been put to question in around a year. The only thing that could be said about this room is that there was once, and possibly still is, something important in connection to the space that lay beyond that haphazardly made door. She’s sure of it.

Somewhere deep within her soul, in the farthest reaches of her heart, she knows she has the answers to a plethora of questions her mind makes up about that room. She knows that if she just looked inside herself long enough, she would come up with those very answers and finally be rid of this stubborn nagging feeling pulling at the edges of her entire being. However, in around a year, she has never taken the time to actually do so. Because she is afraid.

She is afraid that the answers she might find won’t actually quell that nagging shadow but feed it instead. She is afraid that those answers won’t cease her questions but leave her with more and somehow painful ones. She is afraid that if she took even one step up those stairs, the threads holding her sanity together will fray completely and leave her with nothing but a single wish for freedom from her unmoving husk. She is afraid so much so that she feels the only way to deal with this vast and nebulous fear is to push any thought that makes it stir into the back of her mind, as far back as she can fathom. Anytime her inner voice yearns, anytime her conscience questions with innocent curiosity; all of them are quieted and sent away. As they say: Once you open a can of worms, you can never close it back up again.

And so, much like her answers that stay unseen and untouched, so too does the room remain the same. So too does the light switch that sits at the bottom of the stairs. So too does that end of the hall.

If only she could silence the ghosts around her just as easily. A whisper of a laugh here, a breeze of some rough footsteps there, the echoes of whining and shouting bouncing off the walls of this two-story home, and always in the corner of her eye is the vague silhouette of someone not quite remembered. She can recall the exact day when these ghosts first appeared. It was after the night of the storm; that terrible, ominous, and dark storm. Even though the memories of that night are a haze within her mind – a mess of rain, wind, screams, and terror – they still chilled her to the bone. Perhaps it’s _because_ those memories are unfocused that they always send shivers down her spine. Perhaps it’s because of the intensity that thunderstorm showcased that night. Or perhaps it was something else entirely that lay dormant in the gaps of her memory.

 _No,_ she speaks the word within her mind like a butcher knife slamming its edge into a chopping block. _Not again. No more._

Some people might say she’s not handling this well. If she has to be honest, she would tell them that the ghosts used to be so much louder in the beginning. They were basically a constant stream of tangential human noises on high frequency, hitting a point where her ears and brain would have a ceaseless ringing in them and her knees would frequently give out on her under the sheer emotional weight on her heart. Her husband, the amazing man that has stuck by her side for this around-a-year’s worth of insanity, would always rush to her side at those times with nothing more than comforting words and an endless supply of patience for her. Maybe it was – and still is – because he heard the same kind of ghosts but she knows that even if that weren’t true, he’d still have done the same.

To say that those people are completely wrong, however, is also untrue. Despite wishing these ghosts to no longer haunt her days and nights, despite the absolute dissonance that comes from this dichotomy, she finds herself feeling bereft over the fact that her ghosts have actually grown quieter. How can you feel loss over something you fear? They might ask her. She would tell them that her ghosts never instilled fear in her. The storm? Yes. The hazy memory? Of course. The room? It couldn’t be more obvious. But her ghosts? Oh, no, never her ghosts. There is a warmth and fondness and joy that comes with them. There is a familiarity in spite of the fact that she has no basis for it. The only detriment that plagues her from her ghosts is pain. Pain that has sat on her heart since the night of that accursed storm. A pain that likes to transfer itself from one source to another, making its devastation crash over her like the tide. First it was because of how loud and clear her ghosts were but now it’s because of how soft and muffled they’ve become. She is, in essence, losing her ghosts.

The rapidity of her heartbeat grows only faster and faster at this notion. Oh, how she wishes they would stop so that she may finally have a semblance of silence! Oh, how she begs the heavens to let her keep her ghosts by her side! The frustrated, pain-filled tears that fall from her eyes and spill down her cheeks always seem to come without fail whenever her mind wanders to this edge of her thoughts.

 _Please, all that I ask,_ she chokes out, _is that you make the pain stop._

No reply is made.

_Please… if I could have just one wish… Please bring me my peace._

Time passes, and what was once ‘around a year’ becomes ‘a year and a half’. A year and a half since the night of that storm. A year and a half since that room became nothing more than a question. A year and a half that she’s been in pain. It takes every ounce of energy that she can muster just to get herself out of bed each morning. The thought that she can get even the briefest of seconds’ worth of peace through distraction, however, is the final push she needs to finally stand and face the day. The daily chores of washing, mending, cleaning, dusting, and cooking provide those short bursts of peace. Her walks to and from the market earn her some more. She runs into the Mayor’s daughter, someone she’s known and grown close to since the girl first arrived on their shores around a decade ago. She finds it strange to be so familiar with someone less-than-half her age, despite the fact that their community thrives upon being close-knit. The Mayor’s daughter tells her something about a return, speaking with such conviction that it takes her by surprise. She doesn’t have the heart to ask who or what is to return, seeing as her thoughts blocked out the first portion of the young girl’s speech. A wisp of a feeling flies through her own heart, though, and leaves it trembling. She feels hesitant. Could that something be relevant to her?

They part ways and she heads back home with groceries in hand. Her mind, despite her best wishes, keeps its habit of wandering. Maybe she should’ve asked the Mayor’s daughter to repeat herself. Find out exactly _what_ will return. The fact that she told her in the first place should mean that there’s a connection between her and this… whatever it may be. Maybe it’s the key to her peace. Maybe it’s the key to her undoing, says another voice. Yes, the fear is still there as it has been all this time. The nagging shadow still keeps its place around the corners of her soul. Her ghosts, however, have grown even quieter since she made her plea. She can feel her heart in her throat over this and begins to wonder just how untethered her sanity has become if she’s willing to dive past the fear and shadow all for a chance to grab that potential key. She can feel herself begin to accept the idea of swapping pain for pain. If this key unlocks something that begets her more pain but even just the tiniest glimpse of clarity? Then by all that is in this world, she will take that chance if it means standing in the light once more.

Suddenly, a cacophony of crashes and thuds fall around her.

She opens her eyes – having not realized she closed them in the first place – but it isn’t because of the sounds of fallen produce, uncooked dinner ingredients, and dishware that make her do so. Her eyes are wide and unfocused, staring at nothing in particular, with her pupils dilated in shock. Tears have already pooled and slipped down her face without her realizing, and she reaches for the kitchen counter in an effort to steady herself. On the outside, she looks as if she’s fighting a dizzy spell, but on the inside… there is a storm of memories whose ferocity could match the one that ravaged her home a year and a half ago. Moment upon moment, days upon days of crystal-clear memories flooding her mind that she truly felt her stomach flip and fought to keep the bile down from passing her throat. After what seems like an eternity, the onslaught assuages and she is left with but one word… one _name_ : “Sora.”

Several weeks of feverish searching and hair-pulling frustration leading into sleep deprivation and crashing, she eventually calms down and tries to reclaim some normalcy to her life. She attempts to work on typical household chores. It doesn’t work. Her hands continuously grow idle as her mind falls back onto her utmost pressing matter. At the top of the stairs at the end of the hall on the second floor of her house by the shore, there is a room. A room whose door has still remained unopened. However, _now_ it is a room whose contents no longer remain a mystery. _Now_ it is a room whose existence is no longer put into question. Because _now_ she knows – _remembers_ – what the missing piece is to it all. And he isn’t there. He isn’t _anywhere_ here. And she doesn’t know where he went.

The guilt and loss that claws at her heart clouds her eyes in fresh yet familiar tears. Her hands still amidst folding a basket of laundry, the only thing she can make out is the color: Blue. A brilliant sky blue. She is overcome and buries her face in the fabric, squeezing her eyes as she struggles for air between her sobs. Her mind trails back down its well-worn paths of memories and emotions, and from a distance they seem like patchwork but up close there is a seamless cohesion that takes her from one memory to the next like a nonstop bullet train. She does not hear the front door open slowly then close with a soft ‘click’. She does not hear the sloppy attempts of someone taking off their muddied and worn-out shoes in the foyer. She does not hear the soft padding of bare feet across her floorboards, making their way to the master bedroom where she sits. It’s only when a voice, tentative and earnest, calls out to her does she come back to reality. Because… it’s _his_ voice.

“… Mom, I’m home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said in the tags, this is a VERY unbeta'd work that is actually a rewrite of a one-shot I originally made a little over 10 years ago (holy crap). The original version was posted to Fanfiction.Net and is still available to read (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5087518/1/The-Missing-Piece), so if you want to see just how far (or not) I've come in terms of writing, go check it out and cringe along with me!
> 
> As for inspiration, it's still the same from when I wrote the original but with the added factor of just wanting to improve upon that. As in one day I felt like looking it over and immediately went, "Oh god this is crap! I need to re-write this just for my own sanity!" Or something to that effect. Anyway, the itch just stuck with me... till KH3 hit along with its ending, and then I finally took the dive (back in March). So, uh, yeah, as far as that extension to include KH3's ending, it's all up to whether I have the strength of heart. Because then there'll have to be a change of tags if I do so. If anyone wants to read that unwritten extension, then please let me know. Thank you!


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